


Spinning Falsehoods

by AntiKryptonite



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: And by canon, Canon Divergent, Episode 2x04, F/M, I mean only up through the first couple seasons, What-If, because we all know that OUaT was tragically cancelled after season 3a, but I love them so much so I'm back like it or not, except lots and lots of good fanfiction, it's been ages since I've written Rumbelle, nothing happened after that, which hopefully this is but lets be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22384288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiKryptonite/pseuds/AntiKryptonite
Summary: "Do you know who I am?" Rumplestiltskin asks, and Belle lies."No," she says. It's a lie, and a well-intentioned one at that, so why does it all spiral so quickly out of control?After being rescued before she can cross the town line, Belle takes the opportunity for some breathing room to figure out what she wants from Rumplestiltskin.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 24
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so long! Recently, I started rewatching OUaT and fell in love all over again with Rumbelle and the show in general (you know, ahem, all two and a half seasons of it). As some of you might know, I used to write a lot for this couple and so I thought it'd be easy to go back to it (with an eye to maybe finishing that giant AU I've left hanging for...six years?!?), but wow, was I wrong. Anyway, to kind of get back into the swing of things, I decided to start a one-shot based on that always-oh-so-intriguing pause Belle made before she answered Rumplestiltskin as to whether she remembered him in 2x04 The Crocodile. I hope you will let me know if the characterization is all right or if I've completely lost my touch -- and as per usual with me, this short little one-shot turned long, so here's the first chapter and I'll hopefully post the last chapter this weekend. I hope there are still Rumbellers out there!
> 
> Disclaimer: I have quoted from episodes (though I was sometimes too lazy to go get the EXACT quote) and those were written by others. No copyright infringement is intended.

The idea strikes her like a lightning bolt. One flash and it is there, fully formed, in her mind. It takes only the space of a breath for her to enact that idea, to release the damning word into the open. One question, and there her answer, good intentions all around, and her world goes spinning away from her. She never imagined, in that moment when Rumplestiltskin peered deep into her eyes and a small crowd watched them with bated breath, that a single word could destroy so much.

  
No. Not just a word, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

  
It was a lie.

  
“Do you know who I am?” Rumplestiltskin asks her. Breathless. Expectant. So bright and vivid against the dark confines of the mine tunnel. ( _Do I know you?_ she remembers another version of herself asking.)

  
She stares at him, feels that bolt of inspiration, and that is the beginning of the end.

  
“No,” she says. (She likes the answer he gave her, both of them alone in the backroom of his pawnshop, so much better.) 

  
The regret comes slower than the idea. It leaks in, a slow rain nearly invisible in the dark until it soaks everything and leaves behind gaping sinkholes. 

  
It starts with the look in Rumplestiltskin’s eyes. The sharp grief. The crushing defeat. The inevitable resignation. 

  
Heartbreak happens in degrees, and Belle watches each stage play out in the dark eyes of her true love.

  
“Wait,” she says, a stammer that’s already far, far too late. “No, I do. I do know you.”

  
Hope, so much slower than his pain. So much shyer. And yet, still there, scrawled across every inch of him, from his wet eyes to his trembling mouth, from the slope of his shoulders to the tremor in his right leg. 

  
He’s so vulnerable.

  
And there are eyes behind her, the man who lifted her from the minecar. Eyes behind Rumplestiltskin, her own father, the man she trusted (the first person she ever told about her love for the Dark One). The man who utterly betrayed her. And Ruby, a friend, maybe, but still a stranger, an unknown variable. 

  
Rumplestiltskin is a man with a thousand enemies, garnered over centuries and won in moments, and Belle has already been used as a weapon against him, already been played as a chink in his armor. 

  
She won’t let that happen again.

  
“Gold,” she says, and closes her eyes against whatever Rumplestiltskin’s face betrays. “I was told you would protect me. You…you promised you would.”

  
A sigh comes from the man behind Belle, a soft, sad noise that matches the sympathetic look he gives Rumplestiltskin (and isn’t it strange, to see someone else who might care about the Dark One? isn’t it horrible, to have already told the lie before she discovers that maybe Rumplestiltskin has as many allies in this new world as he does enemies?). 

  
Rumplestiltskin flinches. Still in public, still under the gaze of more people at once than Belle has ever felt while standing next to the deal-maker, but here, there are no flourishing gestures, no prancing showmanship, to distract from the wound she just (so helpfully, so hopefully) inflicted on his heart.

  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

  
This is wrong, all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Belle only wanted to help him, to give them a bit of breathing room now that Storybrooke has found out that they love each other. 

  
(Or did she? Maybe the idea seemed so inspired for another reason, a darker, more convoluted reason.

  
Maybe she just wanted another window to crawl out of. Another door to slam behind her. Another grand exit to protect her battered heart from any further hurts.

  
Maybe between the two of them, she’s the real coward.)

  
“Belle,” her father says, making it Belle’s turn to flinch away. She doesn’t like the triumph dripping from his voice and the imperious wave of his hand. 

  
This is what he wanted, she reminds herself. A blank slate with no ties to Rumplestiltskin. 

  
Only…that’s not quite true, is it? Because even when she had no memories, no knowledge, no hope, she was given Gold’s name and the promise of something better. Even before her real life came pouring over her in a deluge, she’d already attached herself to Gold.

  
“I don’t know who you are,” she says firmly, and steps closer to Rumplestiltskin. “Why are you here?”

  
Ruby finally shakes herself into movement, turning to glare at Belle’s father. “Yeah, why don’t you tell her, Moe?”

  
“I’m not going with someone I don’t know,” Belle says. She wonders if Rumplestiltskin will notice that she has taken yet another step closer to him. (She knows he does; Rumplestiltskin notices everything, and even if he didn’t, he is always, _always_ , conscious of where _she_ is.)

  
“But you’re my daughter! Belle, you have to—”

  
“This is what you wanted,” the man behind her says, a note of steel running through his voice. “Now you’d better get out of here before I decide to forget that we don’t have the manpower to keep someone in jail indefinitely.”

  
Belle doesn’t watch her father walk away (later, she can think on how easily he turned away; later, she can kneel over the toilet Rumplestiltskin showed her how to work and expel all her betrayal and her horror and the fear that had nearly overtaken her when that key to her shackles dropped onto receding tracks). 

  
“Gold,” she says in time with her third step.

  
Rumplestiltskin backs away, one step, two, a third. An even trade for the distance she broached between them. Now, finally (too late, too little, his enemy already walking away and Ruby and the stranger’s attention more on Belle than on him), he reclaims a paper-thin façade. 

  
“There’s a lovely bed and breakfast you can stay at,” he says, his mouth twisting bitterly as he adds, “You’ll be safe there, I promise.”

  
“Gold, maybe there’s something we can do,” the man says. 

  
Rumplestiltskin ignores him. He turns to look at Ruby, but Belle isn’t fooled. She knows when he’s doing his best to avoid eye-contact. “Isn’t that right, Miss Lucas?”

  
“I…” Ruby blinks and shifts her weight. “Yeah. Sure. I mean, you’re welcome, of course, Belle, you know, until you can find somewhere more permanent.”

  
“Would that be okay with you?” the stranger asks, coming up to stand beside her, though he’s careful to keep a bit of distance between them (she wonders if that is due to the man’s innate courtesy or Rumplestiltskin’s proximity). 

  
“I…” The lie is crushing her, grown so large it makes the tunnel seem stifling. But still, the man and Ruby are here, people when she is not used to them, and Rumplestiltskin is so far away.

  
This is why she snuck away this morning, she reminds herself. Space to breathe. Room to think. A bit of distance between her and the wall of silence Rumplestiltskin had erected between them.

  
She tilts her chin up a little higher. “Yes. I will go with you.”

  
Too late, she recognizes that phrase. Too late, she realizes what Rumplestiltskin ( _No one can ever, ever love me!_ ) will think to hear her giving away that promise to someone else. 

  
Her hand reaches for him—she doesn’t care if the lies are revealed, cannot bring herself to worry over whether Ruby and this stranger are enemies or allies, powerful or pawns—she only wants to take Rumplestiltskin’s hand and reassure him that just because she leaves for an afternoon to come to town, it doesn’t mean he will never see her again.

  
But he’s already turned, already making his slow, stumbling way over rocks and detritus, already walking away. 

  
And now Belle knows why _she’s_ usually the one who walks away. 

  
Now she feels the stages of heartbreak play through her own soul.

* * *

  
Ruby and her grandmother put Belle up in a room. Belle nods and listens and smiles and tries not to say anything to give herself away—though surely she already has. Before the curse was broken, she didn’t know her name was Belle, she didn’t believe in magic, and she certainly didn’t know how to work any of the devices here. 

  
But then, Ruby wouldn’t know that. She wasn’t there with Belle, calming her panic over the starting of a car, soothing her when she walked into a dark room and didn’t know to flick the light-switch, leaving her cherished letters to ease her way into the intricacies of this world.

  
That was Rumplestiltskin. Rumplestiltskin—who walked away from her. Who hasn’t been by once in three days. Who has seemingly vanished, as if it is that easy for him to live without her. 

  
He’s centuries old, she reminds herself. Centuries, and he knew her only a few months, had her back only a few days. What presumption she must have to think that she has made any kind of lasting impression.

  
Belle wraps her arms around her middle and chases the bitterness away. 

  
He does love her. She knows that better than she knows her name and her place in the world. He loves her enough that their kiss shook his curse. He loves her enough to break one of his unbreakable deals in order let her go. He loves her so much that he collapsed into tears when he saw her again. He loves her enough to let her go (over and over and over again).

  
(Belle wonders why she didn’t remember that when her brilliant idea came to her. She wonders if maybe _her_ love isn’t as true; if she only loves him enough to walk away.)

  
She just needs to see him. A moment to get close enough to say his name and fill him in on her plan. Angry as she was, frustrated as his non-answers made her, she never meant to hurt him, only to protect him. She was always going to tell him. 

  
(Wasn’t she?)

  
But Ruby is there nearly all the time. The man (David, he introduces himself as, though Ruby fills her in on Prince Charming and Snow White and the Savior and his own form of heartbreak) checks in on her often. A few times he tries to bring up Rumplestiltskin, stumbling over the name _Mr. Gold_ , eyes so earnest and hopeful on her. It’s nice, to know that Rumplestiltskin _can_ reach out to other people, enough to go to them and ask for help in finding her. Belle thinks that if only Rumplestiltskin knew she was still _Belle_ , she’d be all too delighted to question David about his search for her, to ask questions about the look in Ruby’s eyes when she hands her Rumplestiltskin’s sweater that he gave her, to marvel over the Dark One being so open in front of _anyone_.

  
But he doesn’t know. And she’s not really Belle, not in any way that matters. And hearing that Rumplestiltskin willingly followed David around like a meek little lamb to find her only reminds her of all the reasons this lie seemed like such a good idea.

  
Rumplestiltskin can’t afford to be so vulnerable.

  
Shivering, Belle pulls his sweater closer around herself and stares down at the breakfast Ruby gives her. 

  
“Belle?” Ruby smiles at her, a soft smile that is at pains to appear gentle. Belle’s not deaf and has heard Ruby and her grandmother whispering together, words like _wolf’s time_ and _full moon_. Idly, Belle wonders what it is about her that she is drawn to the creatures, the beasts, the monsters the rest of the world would rather ignore or destroy. Werewolves, yaoguai, the Dark One—all of them so much more than they themselves see in the mirror.

  
She doesn’t blame Ruby for being worried for her. For wanting her to find a safe place (how is Ruby to know that Belle walked away of her own accord from the safest place she’s ever had?).

  
Ruby drops a tiny box wrapped in a bow next to Belle’s plate. “Someone left this for you.”

  
“Someone?” Belle asks, and as quickly as that, hope beats a staggered rhythm against her throat. Her hands shake as she tugs the carefully tied bow (every move, every act of creation he makes, given the same care as he uses to spin straw into gold), and her breath clatters against the backs of her teeth when she sees the key with its one word written on the tag.

  
_Library._

* * *

  
The library is vast and filled with books, cozy and dusty and populated by shelves that wind here and there, alleys and corridors of books, books, books. It is everything a library should be, and Belle walks every inch of it with a smile on her face. Looks around every corner. Finds a door that leads up to a small home furnished with everything she would need to live on her own (and none of it dusty, all of it cared for with a gentle hand that had been so careless with his own castle). Walks back downstairs and comes to a halt in front of the doors…and feels her smile withering. 

  
He's not here.

  
She thought he would be. Rumplestiltskin loves to give gifts, to make presentations, to leave surprises—but more than that, he loves being present to watch her reaction. Always couched in excuses, of course, quips and rationalizations, the twittering flair to disguise the true intention behind the gesture, but still _there_ , his eyes smiling even when his mouth has forgotten how to.

  
But he’s not here. 

  
She waits for long hours, trailing her finger over the spines of the books, tracing the language she can read and understand and wondering if there are any books in other languages here. Still he does not appear.

  
This isn’t like the library he gave her in their old world, she finally realizes—this is goodbye. 

  
This isn’t the home he took her to on the other side of Storybrooke, his eyes locked on hers as he told her whatever she wished in the house was hers (she chose him; she will always choose him)—this is the town where he sent her to fetch straw fully believing he would never see her again. The village where he’d promised her friends and family would be safe and where he expected she would be too. 

  
Belle wants to cry. She wants to fall on her knees and wrap herself in the sweater that doesn’t smell like him anymore and let the shards of her heart fully settle within the cage of her breastbone. 

  
She wants to scream. She wants to rage and fight and shake her fists at the sky and rant about how he can choose his secrets, his magic, his _power_ , over her yet again.

  
She wants _Rumplestiltskin_.

  
But he’s not here. Not hers anymore. She ran away from him out a window (a window that was locked while she ignored the door that wasn’t) and she gave him up with a lie ( _intentions are meaningless_ , how many times has she heard him say that?) and now he will never believe her again when she promises forever (if he ever did to begin with).

  
For the first time, Belle wishes that she really _did_ forget.

* * *

  
The wind blows a few scattered leaves across the street as Belle walks from Granny’s toward the library ( _her_ library). She reaches up a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes and almost stumbles into Rumplestiltskin. His hand reaches for her elbow to steady her even as his eyes widen in what she recognizes as genuine shock. 

  
“Belle,” he breathes, making Belle’s heart clench tight in her chest. 

  
“Gold!” she exclaims. 

  
She’s been practicing for the past two weeks, making herself think _Gold_ every time her mind thought _Rumplestiltskin_ , all so that she won’t slip in front of anyone—finely tuned effort that backfires on her now when the strange name falls immediately from her lips. 

  
As quickly as that (one word as a lie; one name that’s not truly his; it’s tragic how easy it is to destroy everything that took so long to delicately craft), Rumplestiltskin’s hand falls away from her as he takes a step back. He leans on his cane and stares as if she stands across an impassible distance. 

  
Despite herself, Belle can’t help but look down at the cane. It’s so strange to see him with the walking stick, to pair her graceful spinner who’d danced and twirled and pranced about his castle with this quiet, still man in front of her. 

  
Rumplestiltskin’s hand tightens on the head of his cane, and Belle guiltily looks back up to him. She’s struck all over again by how _ordinary_ he looks. No scales. No too-large eyes. No menacing smile. 

  
It’s different. Strange and entrancing and a whole new world of layers for her to uncover. 

  
If only he would let her.

  
Belle swallows back a surge of _something_ (some strong emotion she’s afraid to identify) and smiles at him. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  
“How…how have you been?” he asks. 

  
A stranger would miss the desperation coating that simple question. 

  
Belle grabs hold of it with terrible relief. (He hasn’t forgotten her.)

  
“Good,” she says. “I moved into the library.”

  
“Good. Good thing.”

  
It occurs to her, then (a realization so much slower than that original idea to lie to protect them both), that this is her chance. They are alone, the only two people on this street while the wind swirls about them as the perfect cover to their words. 

  
“I have to tell you something,” she says. Once more, as if they are still in that mine, she takes a step nearer him. 

  
“What is it?” Rumplestiltskin’s eyes sharpen, that endearing hesitance transforming to something vaguely threatening. “Is it the mayor? If she’s come after you, then—”

  
“No, no. That’s…” Belle tilts her head. “Wait. What?”

  
“Don’t worry,” he tells her reassuringly. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

  
Belle swallows back something thick and sour. 

  
The mayor. The Queen. Regina.

  
His enemies.

  
The wind gusts against her skin, the sky is vast above her, there are no doors in sight—open _or_ closed—and yet Belle feels a familiar panic rising up inside of her. She can’t go back there. She _won’t_ go back there. 

  
And she won’t go back to the next cell she was kept in either: the room with its bed where Rumplestiltskin allowed her to pull him down next to her. The kitchen with the breakfasts he made her, so adamant that she not play the maid for him (though _why_? why when the last time she played it ended in True Love and hope dawning as if for the first time in his ancient eyes?). The trinkets and trophies and junk that decorated every spare surface and brought back memories she’d only just reclaimed. 

  
The room where he left her alone in that bed night after night to retreat to a basement he never invited her into. The kitchen where he lied and evaded and said _nothing_ when she begged him for truth (for trust). The potions and spells and charms that are more important to him, more familiar (more beloved?) than any naïve princess fresh from two dungeons.

  
In all her turmoil over the lie she told, Belle realizes that she forgot. 

  
She forgot how angry she is with him.

  
She forgot that she ran away (and he let her).

  
“Belle?” He’s peering at her across the careful space he ensured between them, his head tilted in the way he always tilts it when he’s worried about her (for all the differences in him, there is sometimes no doubt at all that this is the man she fell in love with). “What is it, sweet—”

  
He cuts himself off, but not quite soon enough.

  
That strong emotion surging inside her calms a bit, eased by the endearment he dropped for the first time beside a well and continued to grace her with as they made their way to his shop and then (after yet more lies, another hasty exit) to his house, through the days where he was so open, so earnest, so tender with his every gesture, every touch he gifted her (and there were so many), every look. 

  
But then, she reminds herself, even then he was lying. He’s been lying since he dropped a glowing vial down a well and let menace cloak him as surely as that magic smoke cloaked the town.

  
(He’s been lying ever since she first met him, secrets littered at his feet and left in his wake like dust-motes in his castle.)

  
“I wanted to say…” She keeps her eyes on him, wide, sincere, guileless (everything she no longer feels). “I…I think you gave me the library. So thank you.”

  
He’s the one who looks away, who takes a step back (for all that his outside has changed enough still to startle her sometimes, he hasn’t really changed at all). “No matter,” he says with his usual awkwardness. 

  
Still lying.

  
“Well,” she says tightly, “it mattered to me.”

  
She thinks he is more surprised than she is when he stops her first step away with a hand—not quite touching her, but hovering there over her wrist (and no matter what he says, what he _believes_ , she has been around magic enough to know just how important intention is when crafting a spell). 

  
“Belle.” Her name falls from him like it has so often in this new world. Like a dream. Like he cannot help but say it but also thinks that even daring to speak it will consign him once more to his lonely darkness. “Are you…are you happy?”

  
The lie she told in the mines was to protect him (to protect herself), and for all that it deceived everyone, it was also touched with a shade of honesty.

  
(She loves him. _Oh_ , how she loves him. But she doesn’t _really_ know him, hasn’t made it past the first few layers of his soul to see all the truths he buries deep.)

  
But now she lies again, and this lie is born from bitterness and frustration, wrapped in impatience, cradled close to growing resentment.

  
“Are you happy?” he asked her (looking for an excuse, an out, a reason to keep his distance and cozy up to his Mistress Magic).

  
“Yes,” she tells him, and she walks away.

  
He doesn’t stop her.

  
She tells herself she is glad (and lies yet again).

* * *

  
_Wow_ , Ruby had said when they were all trapped belowground—her by shackles, Rumplestiltskin by love, and everyone else there by either curiosity or hatred (both equally dangerous for the Dark One and anyone connected to him). _Seriously. That’s just…wow._

  
With adrenaline racing through her veins and terror still limning every thought, Belle hadn’t appreciated the sentiment. It was, in fact, partly what motivated her lie. Unabashed awe, unashamed shock, uncontrolled intrigue—all of it culminating in eyes following her and Rumplestiltskin’s every move.

  
Belle remembers the Dark Castle, how big it felt when Rumplestiltskin was away dealing, how cozy it felt when he returned. She remembers the loneliness that occasionally dogged her steps and the longing she felt to step out and meet some few of the brave (desperate) souls who came to the Dark One’s own front door. She remembers thinking that it would be fun if she could go with Rumplestiltskin on his trips, to stand at his side and link his arm with hers while they traveled the world. 

  
Now, with Ruby’s sentiment the kindest she overhears, Belle longs for the privacy of the Dark Castle, for the haven of that private refuge. 

  
As rumors spread through town about her existence (the grapevine so much more immediate here in this trapped town than in the village she once called home), she is followed, everywhere, by stares, by whispers, by wild stories. Belle has never liked attention or sought the spotlight, so every morning, she has to force herself out of her apartment and then out of her library. Has to steady her hands when she reaches for any doorknob. Has to resist shrinking into herself when she sits at Granny’s and feels the eyes tracking her every move.

  
_Why her_? she imagines them saying. _What’s so special about her that could capture the attention of the deal-maker? She doesn’t look like anything special. She’s ordinary. Why would Rumplestiltskin care about her when he cares about no one?_

  
Or maybe they say, instead, _Poor girl. Bespelled, no question. A curse put on her and now no way out. Poor, poor thing to have tickled the Dark One’s fancy._

  
Or (she tries not to admit that this is her favorite of the possibilities) they disdain her, turn aside and walk away, fear in their eyes as they try to avoid the attention of whatever darkness must surely be within her to have blended so well with the Spinner.

  
Disbelief. Pity. Suspicion.

  
They are like weights on Belle’s shoulders, a constant burden that presses down on her until, little by little, she feels her anger squeezed out of her. (She has endured this pressure for only a couple weeks; what must it be like for Rumplestiltskin who has endured it for _centuries_?)

  
“Good morning, Belle.” The cheerful greeting is like an oasis amidst the searing desert of stares, and Belle smiles maybe a little too brightly for the sheriff. 

  
“Good morning, David.”

  
“Everything all right?” he asks her, as he does every time he sees her (Belle wonders if she imagines the hope there every time, and the slight disappointment when she gives no hint of reclaiming her memories). 

  
“Fine,” she says, as she always does (knows she doesn’t imagine his small sigh).

  
He orders a coffee to go, then turns back to her. “How’s the library coming?”

  
“There are so many books I’ve never seen before! It’s taking me a very long time to go through them because I keep getting distracted.”

  
Nodding, David says, “What…uh, how many books did you see in…wherever you came from?”

  
Belle catches herself (the danger) too late. “Oh, well. There…weren’t many.” She looks down at her iced tea and feels her cheeks turn hot. 

  
“I’m sorry.” David’s voice is gentle, his hand slow as he places it on the counter next to her, close enough she can see the gesture but nothing to overwhelm her. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

  
“Memories,” she murmurs, tears stinging when she blinks them back. 

  
“Belle?” There is a bit too much _knowing_ in David’s eyes when she looks up at him. “It’s okay, you know. You’re safe now.”

  
“Right,” she says (lying becomes a habit so very quickly; no wonder Rumplestiltskin, so much more experienced in it than she, cannot break it).

  
Safe—from the woman who walks the streets freely and knows she doesn’t need to fear Rumplestiltskin’s wrath since he hobbled himself with a promise to his greatest weakness. 

  
Safe—from her father who should have loved her and accepted her and _listened_ when she confided in him that she found True Love (and for all their world celebrated the most powerful magic, there is not one person who has celebrated with her for finding it). 

  
Safe—from the pain in Rumplestiltskin’s eyes whenever he catches a glimpse of her across the street. From the ache in her own heart when he turns away and closets himself in dark, dusty places. From the yearning that exists between them and the walls they’ve both erected against it.

  
She’s never felt _less_ safe in her life. Even promising her forever to a man who thought himself a monster, she felt more sure of her place than she does now.

  
“He asks about you, you know,” David says, much too casual as he sips at the coffee Ruby hands him. 

  
“Who?”

  
(She already knows.)

  
“Gold. He asks me every day how you’re doing. If you’re well. If you’re happy.”

  
“Why…” She has to pause to clear her throat. “Why doesn’t he ask me himself?”

  
David shrugs a bit before saying, “Look, you said he promised to protect you, right? Well…he did. He made sure Regina would never lock you up again. He got you out of the mines—maybe he cut it a bit close there, but still. And he gave you a library and a place to stay so you’d _feel_ safe too. That’s what you _asked_ him to do, right? So that what he’s done. Maybe…maybe he’s waiting for you to ask what you want from him next.”

  
If Belle were to give up her ruse, it’d be right then, pouring out all the words tumbling up her throat and crowding their way into her mouth, clogging up her tongue so she ends up speechless.

  
( _Why must I always be the one who asks_? she wants to cry. _Why is it always me who has to take the step forward and reach out and dare a kiss? Doesn’t he know that I can never truly be happy without him? Why can’t he believe in me?_ )

  
“Why do you care?” she finally manages to say. An honest question, finally, because she is curious about this man who Rumplestiltskin feels comfortable asking a favor of. This man who asked for nothing when helping Rumplestiltskin track her down and believes in their True Love without question and who even now tries to put in a good word for him every time he sees her. “Why does it matter to you if I talk to him or not?”

  
David looks cheerful so much of the time that it is jarring to see a shadow cross his face. “Because there are people I love. People I care about. And I _can’t_ talk to them. I can’t ask them any questions or reassure them that I would do anything for them. I just don’t want anyone else to have to suffer that. And Gold may not be the most likable person around, but…I saw him when he was afraid for you. I heard the way he talked about you in…in the place we used to live. I don’t think anyone deserves to be that alone.”

  
Belle stares. 

  
“Anyway,” David shifts his weight uncomfortably, “maybe it’s none of my business, but that’s my two cents. You’ll let me know if you need anything, right?” Her distracted nod is enough to let him smile and say, “See you around, then.”

  
Then he leaves, though his words linger.

  
Rumplestiltskin told David about her. Not here—in the Enchanted Forest. He talked about her to other people. A chink in his armor, a weakness so great he denied her love and lied to her face and sent her out into the world to allay it and make himself strong once more. But…but then he talked about her to a stranger. To an outsider. He said enough to make that person side with him and root for him and try to help him in his unsubtle, caring way. 

  
Why would he do that if he thought he was better off alone?

  
(Why does he believe her lie when she is a terrible enough liar that David saw right through her?)

  
When Belle stands and pulls Rumplestiltskin’s sweater more tightly around her shoulders, she doesn’t head for the library.

  
Instead, she heads for the pawnshop.

  
( _Do the brave thing and bravery will follow_.)

* * *

  
The pawnshop is just as she remembers it. Instinctively, she looks for the chipped cup and the teaset always set out for their quiet afternoons, listens for the creak of the spinning wheel. 

  
The counters are empty. The silence is so absolute it is almost scary.

  
“I told you, dearie, I don’t have her hood. Why would I hide—” His caustic words fall to a stuttering halt as he comes through the curtain and sees her standing there.

  
Belle lets herself look at him, _really_ look at him. His stance tilted as he leans with one hand on the cane, the other hand holding the curtain up, his hair drifting against his shoulders, silvery and bright in the scant sunlight allowed through the murky windows. His eyes are so wide, so shocked, and even from this distance, she can see a wobble to his chin. 

  
So many masks he used to wear. So many facades and fronts and finery to distract from the man she saw so clearly ever since they stood side by side in the Sherwood Forest. All of them stripped away here, the man within so much more raw and exposed than he ever was before. 

  
A hole opens in the pit of her stomach, and her heart twinges so badly ( _leaps_ for him) that she actually lifts a hand to rub against her chest (to keep her flighty heart in place). 

  
“Belle,” he says, so struck, so disbelieving that she isn’t surprised to see him round the counter and move forward with a hand outstretched. She waits, then, for him to clasp her shoulder (to test her reality), but his hand drops before he can reach her, fluttering aimlessly until it settles atop his other hand on his cane. “Belle, are you… Is everything okay?”

  
“Yes.” It’s not enough (not when all she wants to do is open her mouth and say his name, _Rumplestiltskin_ , more magical than any spell he could cast), but it’s all she can get out. “I just…I wanted to see you.”

  
He blinks his tears away and takes a few steps back. “Ah. Any problems with the library? With the apartment?”

  
“No. No, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

  
Flinching, he raises a hand between them. “Don’t…don’t thank me. Please. It’s little enough when you deserve so much more.”

  
“How do you know that I deserve more?” she asks. “How do you know me?”

  
His tears disappear (she wishes she could think that a good thing, but she _does_ know him, doesn’t she? She knows that he’s just wrapped himself around this new heartbreak, weaving it into the fibers of his soul, adding it to the bedrock of his being, absorbing it until there is no way for him to ever be free of the pain). “I know that no one deserves to be locked up and forgotten about. I know that you deserved so much more than to be left alone and abandoned by the ones who love you. I know that after enduring all that and still emerging kind and brave, you deserve to have a real chance for happiness.”

  
Belle can’t breathe, her heart abandoning its press against her breastbone as it makes a break for it by way of her throat. Swallowing down the heavy lump, she doesn’t bother to wipe away the tears that escape into the open.

  
“David…” Swallowing again, she subconsciously inches a bit closer to him. “He says that you ask after me. That you worry about me.”

  
Another flinch (another blow she didn’t mean to throw, another wound she didn’t mean to inflict, and no wonder she stayed away) as he looks away. “I promised that I would protect you. That’s…that’s all you wanted me to do. It’s all you asked of me. And I couldn’t…”

  
“You did. You do.” She tries a smile on for him (it’s always easier to smile at him than at anyone else, so much easier to find courage and confidence and compassion when she’s staring into his deep, ancient eyes). “The library was enough all on its own, even without everything else.”

  
“The library.” Something shutters in his eyes then, a barrier going up right in front of her, and Belle almost sinks to the floor in disappointment.

  
(This always happens. He always does this. Opens up, allows her one step forward, and then the doors are all slammed and the honesty is subsumed in evasion.)

  
“You love books. The library is enough.”

  
“The library.” She tries not to scoff (tries not to remember nights with his arms wrapped around her, moments when he pressed his lips over hers without fear, without doubt, and held her so close she knew she belonged there in a way she’s never belonged anywhere else). “And you have your shop. And your things. And your deals.”

  
His eyes narrow before he catches himself and avoids her eyes. “If you need anything, Belle, I hope you know that you just have to ask.”

  
_Trust_! she wants to scream at him. But then, that would defeat the whole point, wouldn’t it? If he is to trust her, it has to be on his own terms. Of his own free will.

  
And he doesn’t. 

  
He does love her. She needs only to look up at him, to see the fathomless tenderness in his eyes as he watches her (braces himself for her to walk away from him yet again, always offering her the out that’s easier for both of them), to know that were they to kiss in the Enchanted Forest, his curse would break and shatter around them. He loves her, and she loves him (she thinks she will always love him).

  
But.

  
But he is old, so much older than she can comprehend, and he is steeped in ways and habits and traditions and insecurities so much bigger and deeper than she can know. He is cursed and he is afraid and he is distracted with whatever goal he has set himself to, and in the end maybe he’s right. Maybe his foresight and his wisdom have known best all along. 

  
He has his magic and she has her books and perhaps that will be enough to stop her heart from tearing in two and stop his soul from flinching away from every beam of light she pries into his dusty heart. 

  
Belle lets him hint her into leaving the pawnshop and tries not to think that the tinkling of the bell over the door sounds a lot like the death-knell of tenuous love.

* * *

  
Her father comes into the library as if he doesn’t care that it’s not open to the public yet. His footfalls shake the stacks of books she has cleared off from a shelf she’s wiping down, and when one pile teeters enough to come crashing against her ankle, Belle pretends the bruise is the reason for her sudden desire to cry.

  
“Belle,” he says, “I know you don’t remember me, but I’m your father. I’ve missed you so much. I had to come see you, to let you know that—”

  
“No.” 

  
Carefully, keeping her eyes intent on the books she picks up and stacks neatly, Belle watches him out of the corner of her eye. She remembers nights where he came in and laughed to see her still awake reading, days when he invited her into the council chambers and listened to what she had to say. She remembers the speed with which he denied the deal Rumplestiltskin offered (chose his daughter over his village) and the feel of his embrace when they hugged goodbye. She remembers the smell of fur and pepper and the sound of rolling laughter and the comfort she used to find in him.

  
But it’s poisoned now, tainted by the so few moments they had, reunited in a flower shop. The mask over her head and the ropes around her wrists, the panic that her brief freedom was already slipping away from her—the sheer relief when she saw her papa and thought she was safe—the way he looked at her and the way he _didn’t_ look at her, turned his back and walked away, when he sent her to be erased.

  
“Belle, darling—”

  
“Don’t call me that!” she says sharply ( _My darling Belle_ , Rumplestiltskin called her, when he turned from magic to her and let all the menace fall away in favor of the love shining beneath). “They told me what you did—that you _wanted_ me to have no memories. That you kidnapped me and locked me up and sent me away.”

  
The key had been so tiny in her hands, and even just the memory of her terror when it fell to the tracks—the fate she’d seen for herself, then, trapped in a minecar until she starved to death, a skeleton two feet away from safety she could never reach—was enough to make her feel sick to her stomach. 

  
Worse, though, so much worse, is the taste of the truth she had confided to him. The first time she ever _chose_ to tell someone that she loves Rumplestiltskin—and without even hesitating, without questioning her or _listening_ to her, he tossed her away.

  
“I don’t know you,” she says honestly. “And I don’t think I want to. Get out.”

  
“Belle, I don’t know what that monster’s told you, but—”

  
“Get out!”

  
“I should have known he wouldn’t give up! If he was willing to beat me almost to death for some broken teacup, then of course you losing your memories wouldn’t stop him. Oh, Belle, I’m so sorry, if only I could have prevented him from ever getting his claws into—”

  
“Rumplestiltskin,” she says, her voice so cold and implacable that she doesn’t even recognize it. 

  
Her father’s eyes widen. “Belle—”

  
“Rumplestiltskin,” she says again, and now her father is backing away, reaching for the door, still talking but Belle doesn’t bother to listen (if he will not listen to her, then why should she bother to extend the courtesy for him?). 

  
“Rumple—” She cuts herself off when the door slams behind her father. She’s almost positive that the old superstition about saying his name three times being a summoning charm wasn’t true even in their old land, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have placed protection spells over the library and she doesn’t want to risk it.

  
(She doesn’t think she can bear to see him arrive in all his vengeful glory when she feels so in need of vengeance herself.)

  
(She’s not sure she wants him to hear her say his name when she can’t promise him anything.

  
Yet.)

  
For a long moment, Belle stands without moving. She waits to break down. To burst into sobs. To fall to the floor weeping and gnashing her teeth and mourning everything that could have been. 

  
Instead, she is silent. Still. Numb.

  
A moment later, the library is empty and Belle is halfway to the pawnshop.

* * *

  
Whatever she planned to say or do (whatever truth she meant to tell or lie she meant to perpetuate), it is wiped away by the sight that greets her. The bell above the door tinkles melodious accompaniment to her entrance, a cheer that seems out of place with the destructive chaos that has swept through the pawnshop.

  
In the center of the maelstrom, the eye in a storm of glass shards and dented treasures, Rumplestiltskin stands with his back to the door and his cane on the floor. He leans on the metal framing of his once-pristine counter and gives no indication that he hears the bell (or Belle) at all. 

  
She’s seen him like this only a few times before. Always, when she came upon him in his tower, there were ruins and rubble (the outward manifestation of his heart’s condition, she thinks not for the first time). And always, he barricaded her outside his shuttered eyes, all showmanship evaporated before the rawness of his inner truths.

  
“Hello?” she ventures (she cannot leave him alone like this). The word is ash on her tongue, so dull and monotone compared to the name that wants to leap free.

  
This, at least, he hears. Graceful even as he avoids putting weight on his right foot, Rumplestiltskin spins to see her. She’s seen this expression too: when she came back with a basket full of straw. When she came back after a walk through the trail of devastation left by a wraith. 

  
“Belle,” he breathes, and Belle almost cries just to hear the wistful way he says it.

  
“Are you all right?” she asks. He’s not bleeding, even here in this new world with his more fragile skin, but she thinks he is wounded anyway (mortally wounded, a long, slow death of ages). 

  
His eyes fill with tears and he glances down. He pretends he is looking for his cane, but Belle knows him well enough ( _remembers_ him) to know that he is doing as he always does: evading because something (someone) has gotten too close (has affected him too deeply).

  
“Ah, sweetheart,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Every way I have failed you, yet still you ask after me.”

  
“You haven’t failed me!” she says, perhaps a bit too fiercely for a woman with no long-term memories of him. Swooping down before he can gear himself up to show frailty before her, she picks up his cane and offers it to him. “And _are_ you okay?”

  
Rumplestiltskin has seen magic she probably can’t even imagine, has been present for so many of the mythical events she’s read about in stories and legends, has met and manipulated and shaped the souls and the lives of icons and heroes and villains and paragons. But still, at even the simplest of her questions, the most obvious of her statements, he has this way of looking at her as if he has never seen anything more astounding. As if she is as bedazzling, as addictive, as his precious magic. As if she is as much his terrible salvation as she is his wondrous damnation.

  
“I’m…I’ll be fine.” He waves his free hand vaguely through the air. “Just an experiment of mine that…that didn’t work. But never mind. I’ll find another way.” Another waving gesture (another bit of sleight-of-hand that gives him time to slip on a façade) and he says, “So, what did you need?”

  
“What?”

  
He blinks at her. “What’s wrong? Why…why are you here?”

  
“I…” She swallows. “I wanted to see you.”

  
His brows furrow. His eyes widen. It’s so endearing, so much a part of the man she loves (so much a part of the reason she first fell in love with him, she thinks, back in his castle when his monstrous mask slipped and shimmered translucently, thin enough she saw beyond it to the bashful man so used to being alone and so desperate not to be). 

  
It’s horrifying. She hates it. _Hates_ that he is always so startled, so _confused_ , when she offers him any proof at all of caring for him. _No one_ should feel so unlovable, and certainly not him (Rumplestiltskin, the father who still cannot speak of his son without shattering like glass; the lover who cannot see her without turning fragile as a butterfly’s cocoon). 

  
“Be careful,” he murmurs as he steps forward, out of the tiny unmarked spot where his body sheltered the floor from the rain of glass and porcelain, and toward her. He pretends he is reaching for a broom, keeping her out of reach of those shards, but Belle feels the lightest brush of his knuckles against her wrist.

Rumplestiltskin has always been the most graceful creature she has ever known, his every move choreographed to convey whatever impression he most wants to evoke. 

  
He’s checking to see that she’s really here. ( _You’re real. You’re alive._ )

  
As he passes back the other way with the broom, Belle reaches out and clasps his hand over the broom-handle. Lets him feel her (lets _herself_ feel him, the touch she’s longed for and wept for and missed these past days). 

  
“I can do that for you,” she says. 

  
He doesn’t fight her for the broom, but his eyes are so sad, liquid brown and amber (more human than she has ever seen them) that she pauses. “Please,” he begs. “Please don’t.”

  
“I’m…I’m sorry.” Stepping back, she tries not to feel awkward and out of place as he sweeps up the rubble of his shop. If she’d only leave, she thinks, he’d probably fix it all with a wave of his hand and the sputter of colored smoke. Still, she cannot bring herself to leave. Her father’s words (his betrayals) are still fresh in her mind. There are so many questions she wants to ask—about the beating her father mentioned, and the chipped teacup, and why, why, _why_ , hasn’t he tried to win her back? Why hasn’t he come and offered True Love’s Kiss? Why does he only ever _watch_ her as she walks away?

  
“I’m sorry,” she says again. 

  
She’s supposed to be helping him. She’s supposed to be good for him. She’s not supposed to hurt him and _keep_ hurting him. Not supposed to crush him and grind him down like all the others in his life. 

  
“For what?” he asks, focused on his sweeping.

  
“For not being who you thought I was,” she says (honesty squeezes itself between the lies, oozing into the open ).

  
“Oh, Belle.” He sets the broom aside and finally, _really_ looks at her. “You are exactly who I thought you were. And that makes you one of the two best people I have ever known.”

  
She smiles at him. “Who’s the other?”

  
The answer is in the way he both loses all trace of a smile and smiles with his eyes. The way he looks only when he alludes to the one thing Belle most wants to know about him (and the one thing he has always and consistently refused to entrust her with).

  
She’s half turned away already, thinking he won’t answer her, when he says, “My son.” At the audible catch of her breath, he tries to smile at her. “I lost him. But…maybe not forever.”

  
The shop is silent. Rumplestiltskin is oblivious, fiddling with the ring on his finger in clear nervousness. 

  
Belle, however, cannot move. She has been struck motionless by the bolt of lightning his answer cast at her, the rumblings of thunder belatedly shaking through her heart.

  
His son. His _son_. 

  
_I lost him_. That’s all he ever said, and Belle thought of how old he was and how long he has been the Dark One and she saw the tragedy shining from every crack and chip in his cursed body, and she thought: _death_.

  
But of course not. 

  
Of course not.

  
His _son_.

  
“I hope you know that if you ever need anything, you have only to ask.”

  
His _son_. Lost to him. Out of reach. And a curse that plucked the whole of their world into another realm. A curse that could have only been built by the most powerful being—the Dark One. A curse Rumplestiltskin never would have allowed to be cast if he didn’t wish it to be.

  
“I…thank you.” Belle takes a step toward him, her fingers inches from plucking at his sleeve until the sudden rigidity to his posture, the way his eyes are locked on her fingers as if they are weapons, sends her hand back to her side (tingling and prickling for the touch she wants). “Maybe…maybe we could have lunch sometime? We could have hamburgers?”

  
His _son_! A queen he manipulated, a love story he engineered, a savior he crafted—all his deals and his contingencies and his plans, his machinations and schemes and plots. The long nights he went without sleep, locked away in his tower, and the endless days he was gone, traveling to make his deals here and there and always with items he only bartered away later for still other items or favors. 

  
The light gleams off his watery smile. “I would like that.”

  
His _son_! The cold bed she woke to and the basement he locked himself into and the silence whenever she asked for more than he wanted to confide.

  
Rumplestiltskin loves her. He loves her enough to tear the world to shreds to avenge her slightest hurt. But his _son_. Oh, Rumplestiltskin would tear every world in every realm to dust itself to get back the boy who wore those small clothes and played with that battered ball and held the hand that so often searches, fidgeting and nervous, for him even after all these centuries.

  
The bell jingles overhead again, the final peals of thunder dying away, but still Belle is electrified and alive. 

  
His son. All this time, she thought he chose magic over her. She thought he valued power over True Love (and no wonder that never made sense to her, this man who loves so deeply and devotes himself so utterly and spends himself so carelessly). But he didn’t. He loves her and he never chose power over her.

  
He chose his son. And that…that isn’t something Belle would ever dream of condemning.

  
If she loves him, then she cannot walk away this time. She can’t let him drive her away. Instead, if she truly loves him as much as she knows she does…then it is time for her to let _him_ go. It’s time for her to make the same choice he has. 

  
To choose his son.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reviewed and left kudos or favorited! I've missed the Rumbelle fandom and it's so good to be back! Also, as an aside, I've played SUPER fast and loose with the timeline of early season 2, so hopefully that doesn't bother anyone too much. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Once again, I've used quotes from Rumbelle episodes (though probably not word perfect because I wasn't feeling motivated enough to go check them all), which were written by others--no copyright infringement is intended.

Belle is startled by the sound of the library door clicking open and then, a moment later, closed. Aside from Ruby, no one has ever entered the library to see her. She is even more startled (shocked, really) to hear the quiet tapping of a cane and then to see Rumplestiltskin come into the light. As usual, it takes her a second to reconcile the image she has in her head of her golden-skinned, dancing deal-maker with the quiet, simmering pawnbroker who stands so quietly but nonetheless possesses such force of character that Belle can’t imagine anyone overlooking him ( _she_ certainly can’t for all that she’s been trying the past few days).

  
“Oh!” she says in surprise.

  
“Are you okay?” he asks urgently. There’s worry creasing his brow, and every line of his body is tensed as if for danger.

  
“I’m…yes, of course. What’s going on?”

  
“Nothing. I just…well, the town seems a bit stirred up at the moment. I thought I might…I might stop by and see how you were doing.”

  
Behind him, through the thick library doors, Belle hears the approaching clamor of what she guesses is a mob. Lights flicker and cast long shadows across the aisles of book-filled shelves. Belle shivers, and tries not to admit even to herself just how glad she is that Rumplestiltskin has come.

  
“Miss Lucas hasn’t been here tonight, has she?”

  
Belle takes in a breath as several pieces all click together in her mind. “No. I invited her over, but she said she couldn’t make it tonight. David was around, though, so I assumed he’d be with her.”

  
“Yes, better for all if the sheriff”—he sneers at the title as much as he used to at royalty—“takes care of things.”

  
“Did you want to stay?” she asks, then bites her lip. 

  
Too late. The invitation is already out (it appears she’s no better at permanently letting go than he is). 

  
Belle wishes she were sorry.

  
(She’s not.)

  
Rumplestiltskin pauses, just as he always did when she invited him to sit with her in front of the fire or to read with her or even just to tear himself away from his spinning to take tea, but then nods. “Yes, if…if that’s all right.”

  
“Of course. I was just sorting through these books. I found them in boxes stacked up in a closet. Some of them have a bit of water damage, I’m afraid, and here, smell this—doesn’t that smell like smoke?”

  
Rumplestiltskin’s eyes gleam with sudden mischief as he raises an eyebrow at her. “Shall we make a bonfire here in the library to keep warm, then?”

  
“No!” She can’t help the giggle that escapes her (at the memories of all the times he threatened her library while simultaneously sneaking new books in for her to find). “I suppose these books must have all narrowly escaped such a fate, then, if _that’s_ your first conclusion.”

  
“My second guess,” he says loftily, “is that a dragon made an ill-advised lair beneath the library.”

  
“A dragon?” She smiles at him (too soft, too warm, too familiar, she thinks, but she cannot help herself, not with him so close, so funny and sweet and _hers_ ). “I suppose that must be what happened.”

  
At his surprised look, her smile grows even wider.

  
“What?” she says. “You think I haven’t noticed the magic here in Storybrooke? You do remember how you rescued me in the mines, don’t you?”

  
The gleam in his eyes vanishes, eclipsed by his ever-present guilt. “I wouldn’t call it ‘rescue,’ exactly.”

  
“I would,” she says firmly. “The key they gave me fell out of the car, you know. I wouldn’t have been able to get out of those…handcuffs…without you.”

  
Sheer rage sparks through him, running through well-worn channels, their path made easy by long habit and familiarity. Belle supposes she should feel alarmed, but she doesn’t. Instead, she feels comforted. Safe. (Loved.)

  
It’s the worst time possible for someone to barge in on them, so of course that is when Ruby bursts through the doors. “Belle!” she calls frantically. “Belle, are you here?”

  
“Ruby?” Belle stands from the table where she’d been perched and tries to step forward—but Rumplestiltskin is there, planted between her and her friend, all bristling menace and uncloaked danger.

  
“Belle, I need you to stay in the library, okay?” Ruby begins before falling silent when she catches sight of Rumplestiltskin.

  
“What are you doing here?” he demands coldly. “Of all the places you could go beneath a full moon, you pick the one place _Belle_ is?”

  
“I wanted to make sure she stayed inside!” Ruby protests. “Belle, don’t leave the library, okay?”

  
“Ruby.” Belle slips around Rumplestiltskin to take Ruby’s hand in both of hers. “Are you okay? Do you need any help? We heard the mob outside. Maybe you should stay here—I could hide you.”

  
She doesn’t need to look behind her to know that Rumplestiltskin is quivering with the force of his mute denial.

  
Ruby’s eyes flick from Belle to Rumplestiltskin and then back. “No,” she says. “I can’t risk it. I’m sorry. But you’ll be okay here, right? I mean,” her eyes go hard as she glares at Rumplestiltskin, “the safest place for you is with Gold—right, Mr. Gold?”

  
In the old world, Rumplestiltskin would have tittered and mocked, manipulated and incited. Even here, as Mr. Gold, Belle has caught enough to know that his usual mode is to smirk and intimate and always, always come out on top. But he looks at Belle, standing there and watching him, and he grimaces in an approximation of a smile. 

  
“Of course, Miss Lucas. You can rest assured that no harm will come to _Belle_.”

  
Ruby narrows her eyes at that implied threat, and Belle tries to resist rolling her own at Rumplestiltskin. Though he makes no outward sign of catching her disapproval, Belle knows that he does. She can tell by the way he stays silent while she and Ruby hug, and by the way he calls after Ruby when she turns to leave.

  
“If you’d come to me,” he says, trying to pretend as if he’s not watching Belle out of the corner of his eye (she can feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of it, as she’s always been able to, the reason he was never able to startle her as much as he wished with his abrupt entrances and exits), “I could have made you another hood. Perhaps, if you wish it, I can prepare one for you in time for next month.”

  
“And the price?” Ruby asks, tense and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  
Once more, Rumplestiltskin dares a sidelong look at Belle before he shakes his head. “You’ve done a lot for Belle. For that, I’ll waive the price.”

  
Her jaw dropping, Ruby stares at Rumplestiltskin for a long minute before she gives herself a shake and says, “I’ll think about it. Stay safe, Belle. Don’t leave the library.”

  
As soon as the door closes behind her, Rumplestiltskin is moving, striding away from the spot he stood, making sure the door is closed, prowling the edges of the library—doing everything he can to pretend as if the past few moments didn’t mean anything (don’t show just how much he’s willing to bend for love of her).

  
It’s hard for him, Belle realizes all over again, being in love with her. Not just the fear of their love losing him his path to his son. Not just the tragedy inherent in thinking her dead for so long. Not just the grief her well-intentioned lie has obviously inflicted. 

  
It’s hard, maybe above all, for him to leash himself. To make himself _less_. To alter his manner and his habits and his methods and his interactions all for her sake (all because he is so afraid to lose her love). 

  
It’s hard for him to be himself in front of her when he is so utterly convinced that he is a monster. Unloved. Unlovable. Undeserving. 

  
And she knows, doesn’t she, just how hard it can be to feel all the weight of expectation and the pressure of insecurity. She knows because she never felt more weighted down than when she set out from his castle with an empty basket looped over her arm (and paradoxically, never more free than when she walked back into that castle with a basket full of heavy straw). She never felt more pressured than when he told her to leave and she did it without argument (and ironically, never felt more herself than when she determined to go back to him, to fight for their love and to wait for him to be willing to do the same).

  
She _knows_ that love must be fought for, that it isn’t easy or simple. But none of her books ever prepared her for just how difficult it is to stand so close to the man she loves and yet _not_ say anything (not to make her words into chains or her hopes into shackles or her heart into a prison that he will step into willingly but nonetheless chafe against). How difficult it is to not know _why_ her True Love cares for her but to believe that he does anyway (believe it enough to let him go free, to send him off on his quest and try not to hope too overwhelmingly that he will one day return to her as she did to him). 

  
It’s been three days since she realized that he’s trying to find his son. Three days since she’s spoken to him or sought him out. Three days since she’s tried to make her life anew without him (not because she’s angry, not because she needs space to think, but because it’s what’s best for him). Three days and she’s so weak, because already, so easily, has she succumbed to the temptation of his presence and his smiles and his quips and even his threats and danger. 

  
He’s trying so hard for her, trying when she knows how afraid he is. 

  
Is True Love really supposed to be _this_ difficult?

  
“Belle?” Rumplestiltskin reaches for her, the merest wisp of a touch over her arm before he once more retreats (trying, reaching, _changing_ , and all for her, all a distraction when he needs to be wholly focused on reaching his son).

  
It’s the hardest thing Belle’s ever done, not to melt forward into his embrace. To just stand there and keep herself aloof from him. 

  
_I’ll fight for him_ , she vowed once, and now vows again. _I’ll never stop fighting for you._

  
“I’m okay,” she says. “Look, Gold”—she forces herself to say the name (envisions endless spools of thread, wealth immeasurable, lying forgotten in endless rooms while Rumplestiltskin spun and spun, not to forget, no, but because he _couldn’t_ forget)—“I promise I won’t leave the library. You don’t have to stay.”

  
His hands clench over the handle of his cane. “I want to,” he says quietly (honesty so real it scrapes painfully against them both).

  
“Oh.”

  
It’d be so much easier for both of them if they gave up now. If he walked away and let himself believe that he lost her only because her memories were ripped away. If she let him go to find the son he loves so fiercely, so eternally, and find her own happiness vicariously through the books he gave her.

  
Easier. Simpler. Maybe even, in the long run, happier.

  
But Rumplestiltskin dares to take another step closer to her. He smiles a tremulous smile at her. And he is so very, very brave.

  
“Maybe,” he says, “we could go for a hamburger this weekend. At Granny’s.”

  
( _I love you_ , she once told him when everything else fell away and only the important was left.)

  
Her arms ache with wanting to embrace him. Her lips tingle with wanting to kiss him. Her heart aches with wanting to tell him just how proud she is of him, how much she admires his endless hope and respects his depthless love. 

  
She _wants_. 

  
It’s not easy (it will _never_ be easy, not between them, the Dark One and his maid). It’s not simple (it can _never_ be simple, not between them, the spinner and the scholar). It’s not always going to be happy (it will never be a story-like happily-ever-after, not for them, the man who sees himself as a beast and the beauty who wants to be a hero). 

  
But she wants it anyway. She wants the look in his eyes every time she walks in the room and the sound of his voice when he says her name like a dream and the taste of his mouth when he pulls her close and risks the loss of all his power and comfort. She wants _him_.

  
( _Yes_ , he said in return, accepting and daring and risking it all but hoping nonetheless. _And I love you too_.)

  
“Yes,” she says, and she smiles (she is brave, now, even before she does the brave thing). “Yes, I’d like that.”

  
He stays with her all night, side by side on the floor as they sort books and he surreptitiously magics away water and smoke damage while she pretends not to notice and ends up getting distracted by interesting books until he asks her to read to him and she does and they both pretend they are paying any attention at all to the story when really all they can think of is the feel of their shoulders pressed together and the way their hands rest, so carefully, so casually, against each other’s.

  
( _Kiss me again_ , she thinks. _It’s working._ ) 

  
(She thinks it, but she doesn’t say it, because she is older and wiser now and if she has learned anything, it is patience.)

* * *

  
He meets her at the library, dressed all in black and purple, so breathtaking that Belle has to clutch the door a moment to keep her balance. He holds himself still and calm, with all the appearance of confidence (the mask he’s chosen to present to sway this in his favor), but his eyes give him away, drenched in tentative hope and premature resignation.

  
Smiling for both their sakes (hers because she cannot hold it in without bursting and his because he needs the support of her visible approval), she steps from the library, locks it behind her, and then (bravely, _tellingly_ ), she loops her arm through his. Dressed in yellow (another hint, another memory), her dress swirls against his dark suit coat, and Belle feels a hum of pleasure sing through her at the sight of it. 

  
“Have you had hamburgers before?” she asks him.

  
“Yes, of course.”

  
“Oh. Well, I haven’t.”

  
“No?” He looks down at her. The cadence of his limp and the height of her heels should make their paired walk difficult, she thinks, but here the universe seems to equal things out because it is so easy for her to provide him support and for his unbending arm to offer her balance. “I thought Miss Lucas had taken it upon herself to introduce you to all the many foods her delightful dining establishment has to offer.”

  
She can’t help but laugh at the sneer so falsely hidden in his words (it’s always been so easy to laugh with him, around him, _because_ of him; in all the moments where their love grows hard, she all too often forgets just how much between them is also simple and uncomplicated and _fun_ too). “Well, she tries, but I get stuck on the ones I like for a while before I move on.”

  
The hint of a smile he’d been wearing disappears, his arm like steel beneath her hands. “I see.”

  
“But even when I try new things,” she offers (lest he slam the door in her face once more and she eat lunch with a masked stranger), “I always go back to my favorites. I don’t think I ever really move on.”

  
Rumplestiltskin is the inventor of the subtleties, the master of intricate subtext, the dealer in all things unspoken and implied, so she knows he hears what she’s saying (she’s just not sure if he knows how purposeful her quiet message is).

  
“Well, I suppose we’ll see where hamburgers rank on the list, then, shall we?” is all he says. Still open. Still hoping, still dreading, still _trying_. 

  
Belle clasps his arm closer to herself and smiles brightly up at him. “I think they’re going to be my absolute favorite.”

  
As happens so often (one of the reasons she cannot give him up), he is struck speechless by her (by her words, by her thoughts, by _her_ , and it is so strange, so tantalizing to be seen and heard and valued).

  
A moment later, he reaches to open the door to the diner for her. Belle smiles again (or still, maybe, so hard to know when all she can see is _him_ ), he looks as if he will smile back—

  
“Gold, I need your help.”

  
For an instant, Belle is back in a cell. Manacled to a wall. Left to rot while Rumplestiltskin mourns, put on a shelf for a rainy day when his enemies want to hurt him most. For an instant, she is helpless, powerless, _afraid_.

  
In the next instant, Rumplestiltskin has moved to place himself between her and the Queen, crackling with barely restrained power and barely leashed fury. Belle shrinks forward, only belatedly realizes that her hands are twisted through his jacket as she curls up into his back, and she tries not to think about all the people around her who are hastily vacating the area.

  
“You dare show your face here?” Rumplestiltskin snarls.

  
“You promised you wouldn’t kill me,” Regina says, haughty as ever (as all the times she stopped by Belle’s cell to gloat or to condemn or to reassure herself she had something Rumplestiltskin wanted). “Besides, this is important.”

  
Rumplestiltskin swells, grows, the force of his sheer presence looming over the taller woman. Though she can’t see his face, Belle knows that he is cold, implacable, and so very, very terrifying. “And Belle _isn’t_? How. Dare. You. I think you’ll find, your Majesty, that there are more fates worse than death than just the one you sentenced her to. Do try to stretch your imagination a bit more, won’t you?”

  
“Gold—”

  
“No. We’re done here.”

  
“It’s Cora.”

  
With her hands gripping his suit coat, Belle can feel against her knuckles the shiver that races down Rumplestiltskin’s spine (the infinitesimal flinch, invisible to all but her).

  
“Cora,” he says. She’s never heard his voice like this. Numb. Hollow. Emptied of everything (the purpose and the regret with which he speaks of his son; the condescension and the pride with which he speaks of David and his wife and the savior; the tenderness with which he speaks of _her_ ). “You said she was dead. You _said_ you saw the body.”

  
“Well, apparently you taught her well. And now she’s coming back.”

  
“I don’t see how that’s a problem for me,” Rumplestiltskin says after a brief pause. “I beat her, in the end.”

  
Regina arches a disbelieving brow. “That’s not how she tells it. Besides, things are different now, aren’t they?”

  
Beneath her fingers, Rumplestiltskin stiffens still further. Another heartbreak, Belle thinks. Whoever this Cora is, whatever she means to come here for, she is only another in a long line of scars stretching back through Rumplestiltskin’s varied life. 

  
Belle’s always wanted to be brave. For as long as she can remember, she’s longed to be a hero like the ones found in her favorite books. Bravery, heroism, sacrifice—all ideals she has strived to reach (with varying degrees of success). But it wasn’t until Rumplestiltskin entered her life that she really found a way to prove herself. 

  
He gave her the chance to save her people.

  
He offered her a way out and a way back to him to try for that most powerful and elusive of all magics.

  
He is the adventure she’s always longed for, the trial she’s always wanted to set herself, the mystery she wants more than anything to uncover. 

  
More than that, he is _hers_. No matter what happened between him and this Cora in the past, it is their cup that is his most precious possession.

  
And now, in this moment, he needs her. Needs her to be brave. To be strong. To be more than the naïve, sheltered princess or the maid sent always to another room.

  
“This time,” Regina says with a pointed look Belle’s way, “you have a weakness.”

  
Gathering the shreds of her fledgling courage, Belle releases her grip on Rumplestiltskin and moves to stand at his side. She can’t tell if he stiffens further when she threads her arm through his or if he relaxes a hair, but either way, there is a definite change. 

  
“If you’re talking about me,” she says (so relieved when her voice doesn’t shake), “I’m not a weakness.”

  
“Of course not,” Rumplestiltskin says, though she can see fear swimming in his eyes. “Now, if that’ll be all, Belle and I have a lunch to get to.”

  
“Gold, if Cora gets through—”

  
Rumplestiltskin snarls at Regina, a change so abrupt, so menacing that the Queen actually falls back a step. “That’s really not my problem, dearie. And if you ever come so close to Belle again, I will salt this town’s earth with your blood.” 

  
Regina draws in a breath, but Rumplestiltskin’s already turning away from her (and Belle remembers, she knows, what it’s like for his weighted, empowering focus to suddenly be turned elsewhere, leaving her stumbling and lost in the absence of his all-consuming regard; it is, perhaps, the worst thing he has ever done to her, when he pretended to stop caring). 

  
(As she’s done to him with her one well-intentioned lie.)

  
For the first time, Belle is actually glad when a door closes behind her because it puts a barrier, even one as thin as glass, between her and Regina.

  
Though the better barrier, the stronger defense, is the man who guides her to a booth and keeps his eyes averted while he clumsily slides in and hides his cane beneath the table. Ruby brings over a few menus, unusually quiet—not that Belle doesn’t understand. A confrontation between the Evil Queen and Rumplestiltskin himself is the stuff of nightmares, and it happened right on the diner’s doorstep.

  
Rumplestiltskin fumbles with the menu, almost dropping it, and Belle emerges from her residual fear to realize that he’s nervous. Unsure. (Afraid that his beastly side has scared her away.)

  
“Hey,” she says softly, and he drops the menu to the table, his head bowing.

  
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

  
Belle’s stomach clenches. “Why?”

  
“That you had to see _that_ ,” he jerks his head in the direction of the door. “That she came near you. I promised to protect you and yet she walks free.”

  
“Hey.” Belle drops her hand over his. She meant it to be a reassuring gesture (and it seems to be since he freezes and goes soft and breathless the way he’s done since the first time she touched him voluntarily), but she didn’t realize how much it would settle _her_ too. Abruptly, she’s able to take her first full breath since Regina interrupted them. “It’s okay. She didn’t hurt me. And I don’t think she’ll be coming after me again.”

  
“You’d be surprised,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Regina has never been the quickest of students.”

  
“Well, I’m not afraid of her.” Belle offers him a smile (more tremulous than she’d like). “Or, maybe I am, but I’m trying not to be.”

  
“Ah, Belle.” There are more words (precious words) in his eyes, in the way his hand shakes beneath hers, but he locks them away (respects the boundary she’s placed between them with her lie). 

  
They both order hamburgers, Belle with iced tea and Rumplestiltskin with coffee, before Rumplestiltskin asks what she knows he’s most worried about.

  
“If you’re not afraid of Regina…” He peers up at her from under his lashes. “Are you…are you afraid of _me_?”

  
If she were a better person, she thinks, maybe she would be. If she were a better person, his ruthless threats would make her think twice about the title of Dark One and how he acquired it, how he handles the curse he refused to let her break ( _his son_ , she thinks again, on an endless loop in her head as every day, pieces of him become clearer and clearer), how his deals have not always been with an eye toward any future goal. If she were more of a hero and less of a scared girl who sometimes hyperventilates when a door sticks before opening, she would frown at his lack of desire to help the town and she’d try to nudge him toward doing more, being better, pulling out the good man lying dusty and neglected behind endless masks and facades. 

  
But she still has her memories. She remembers endless days in a drafty tower and visitors who broke in asking her to help kill her True Love, blows that left bruises and words that left scars. She remembers a father who should have embraced her but locked her up and sent her away instead. She thinks of a town who does not care to grow to know her or even to protect her from the secrets they think she’s forgotten. 

  
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says (a truth to counter the lie that started this whole thing spinning out of control all around her). “You make me feel safe.” Looking down at her iced tea and trying not to blush, she adds, “You make me feel like _I_ can be brave. Like I can be strong.”

  
“My darling Belle,” he says hoarsely, and her breath catches in her throat when he cradles her hand between both of his. “You _are_ strong, the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I’ve never seen you be anything less than utterly courageous.” His smile is self-deprecating and sincere. “You’re here with me, after all. That’s nothing if not bold.”

  
“I like being with you,” she says softly. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

  
She has never seen him look so beautiful as he does in that moment, happy and wonderstruck and relieved (he looks as if she has broken his curse all over again and this time he will not prevent it).

  
As she thought they would be, the hamburgers are her favorite thing she’s ever had.

* * *

  
That night, she dreams of Rumplestiltskin. Truthfully, she’s been dreaming of him for years now. First, in his castle, they were shy, sweet dreams of small kindnesses, quiet confidences, even, eventually, daring kisses. Out in the world, chasing adventures so much duller than the one she left behind, she dreamed of him appearing in the middle of the forest, standing between her and the yaoguai—and sometimes, guiltily, she dreamed he saw her bravery with the flaming monster and he recanted of his cruel words and begged her to return with him. 

  
In the Queen’s castle, the dreams were simpler, blurred memories of days gone by and the connection they had forged, little bit by quiet moment by brave trust—either that, or nightmares that he forgot her, drank a potion and left her behind forever, erasing the memories in a way so much more permanent than his usual method of spinning endless gold. 

  
As the nobody locked away underground, Belle didn’t dream at all. Or if she did, she doesn’t remember them. She remembers only a void, hungry and gaping and yawning wider with every memory, every dream, every hope she tried to reach for.

  
Once she found Rumplestiltskin again…well, then, the dreams changed. Twisted into nightmares, scenarios of joyous moments morphing into a Dark One who ignored her and turned away from her, who sought to protect her but didn’t _listen_ to her. Nightmares that left her gasping and trembling and turning in an empty bed to look for the man who’d left it.

  
Nightmares that, if she’s honest, are the reason she pried a window open and headed into town for herself (the reason she opened her mouth to speak a lie she thought was a kindness but has been revealed as only camouflaged cruelty).

  
This night, after hamburgers and tea and a companionable walk where they leaned on each other and he made her laugh with a few quips and she made him nearly cry with a kiss to his cheek, she dreams again. 

  
It starts out like her nightmare. A cozy moment in his shop, another in a long line of gifts he offers her with no expectation of anything in return, her own voice thanking him for changing (from Dark One to ordinary man? from monster to good man? from beast to hero? She’s never sure, when she wakes, what change she’s so happy he’s making, when in her waking hours, she looks at him and can only ever see _Rumplestiltskin_ ). And then the interruption. Leroy (or Ruby or Granny or anyone she’s met in her town, the faces blur and fade next to the sharpness of Rumplestiltskin) barges in demanding something of the Dark One, and then…

  
And then.

  
He is calm. He is contained. Rude, perhaps, but with the same type of comment as the ones she laughs at when they’re alone so she can’t complain. And then, when Ruby (or Granny or Leroy or anybody) turns their attention her way, with an insult or a threat, that’s when Rumplestiltskin snaps.

  
The ordinary man transforms into the Dark One.

  
The man so good and kind and sweet with her becomes a beast full of threats and the power to back it up.

  
The hero she wants, the hero she knows he is ( _his son_ , all this time, all these years, he just wants to find _his son_ ), subsumed by a monster who will not allow her close, will not accept her touch, will not help her bridge the distance between them.

  
Only this time, it isn’t Granny (or Leroy or Ruby) who bursts into the shop. 

  
It’s Regina.

  
This time, the thing they want back is _her_. The Queen has come for her prisoner, and Rumplestiltskin goes from Mr. Gold to the Dark One in an instant.

  
This time, Belle doesn’t try to stop him.

  
This time, she steps up next to him, and lays her hand on his arm—and he stills. Goes quiet. Watches her with wide eyes and dropped mouth. 

  
And he doesn’t kill the Queen. Instead, he sends her away, and he envelops Belle in his golden arms and she breathes in the smell of leather and straw and magic.

  
Belle smiles at him and thinks, _Mine_.

* * *

  
Belle sits up gasping, her heart hammering against her breastbone. The room’s dark around her, light from the window just profiling the edges of the books stacked up on her nightstand. She can still feel the slightly pebbled feel of Rumplestiltskin’s skin, can still smell the straw, feel the crackle of energy that always surrounded him.

  
He listened to her. Even in the depths of the nightmare, consumed by power and vengeance…he stopped at her touch.

  
All this time, she’s been so afraid of the beast inside him, the curse that enveloped him, the danger that lurked in their future.

  
All this time, she should have been afraid of herself—of the part of herself that _likes_ the fact that the Dark One will hush and soothe and stand down for _her_. She should have been afraid of the power she holds over him, the ability to sway him to good or evil, and the dark parts of her heart that _love_ his power and his threat and his menace. She should have been afraid of how much _she_ could hurt them.

  
All this time, he hasn’t been the only one who’s changing. He knew, she thinks, of course he did, it’s why he let her go, tried to send her away before she lost the light that so entrances him. But that same light also blinds him, and maybe if he needs to let her pull the curtains down to bring in the sun, she should be willing to walk through the dark places where _he’s_ most comfortable. 

  
( _I’ll get used to it,_ he said after she fell into his arms and both their hearts teetered over the precipice.)

  
“I’ll get used to it,” she whispers to the moon and the stars and the black spaces in between.

  
Suddenly, she can’t wait to see Rumplestiltskin again. It’s past time, she thinks, to unravel the falsehood standing between them.

* * *

  
Every time she tries to find Rumplestiltskin, there are people with him. Regina and David and a boy with a kind smile and old eyes, and then, later, the princess-turned-fugitive-turned-queen and her savior daughter too. Belle tries, once and again and yet again, to find a spare moment, a space of privacy so she can bridge the gap between herself and her True Love, but the closest she gets is when she brings a picnic basket to his shop, and even that is interrupted by a murder accusation and (she presumes, since they ushered her out of the shop before she could do more than try to point out how ridiculous it was to blame Rumplestiltskin with no proof) some magic. 

  
For all that Belle is smart, she knows she has never been cunning, and trying to plot a way to finagle some alone time with Rumplestiltskin exhausts her. 

  
(More, secretly, in the dark of the night, she wonders if he _wants_ her to fix things between them or if, perhaps, he is happier with this distance between them. But that is an old fear, an insecurity she shoves aside in favor of memories when he’s come to her, reached out for her, confided in her, _chosen_ her.)

  
Eventually, as the town prepares for the funeral of the kind man who always had a kindly hello for her when she passed him walking his dog, Belle resigns herself to waiting. She hates the need for it, particularly knowing just how low Rumplestiltskin can allow himself to sink if someone (if _she_ ) isn’t there to chivvy him back to the light, but she refuses to blurt this truth out to him in front of others—or worse, blurt it out and then allow an interruption to part them and hours to pass while he solidifies his own skewed interpretation of her action into his perceived reality.

  
She debates going to the funeral, but ultimately decides against it. The town still hasn’t accepted her past (her present; her future, if she has anything to say about it) with Rumplestiltskin, and her lack of memories leaves them often avoiding her rather than risking any conversation where she might ask about magic or fairy dust or amnesia-causing town lines.

  
She is nearly to the library when the phone (left for her on the library desk with no name attached to it, which is just as good as Rumplestiltskin’s signature anymore) in her pocket rings its strident chime. A moment of juggling with the library key in one hand and flipping the phone open with the other, then she’s saying, tentatively, “Hello?” with the phone hovering near her ear (she’s only ever talked to Ruby on it, once, when the waitress showed her how it works).

  
“Belle, this is…it’s—”

  
“I know you are,” she says (she can’t lie, not anymore). “Hello.”

  
“Yes. I… Hey.”

  
Impossible not to smile at that. She leans against the library door (it rattles, loose, as if unlocked; odd, she thought she was careful about that) and presses the phone a bit closer to her so she can better hear his voice. “How are you?” she asks.

  
“I…fine. Are you? All right, I mean? Everything’s well?”

  
“Yes,” she says, and her laughter sounds in her voice. She can just picture him straightening, drawing up the tattered remains of his pride and steadfastly pretending he’s never stumbled or stuttered in his life (it strikes a pang of nostalgia sharp in her chest, for that scaled and narrow man who paraded like an imp for others but reverted to a skittish cat when alone with her). 

  
“Ah. Well. Good. I was wondering if you could stop by the shop today. I have something to show you, if you’d like.”

  
Her heart leaps for the phone, gets stuck in her throat, and hangs trembling against the slats of her breastbone. “Yes!” she says a bit too quickly. “Yes, I can come. Right now?”

  
“If…if that’s convenient for you.”

  
“I’ll be there in a moment,” she says. “I’m just outside the library now.”

  
“Be careful,” he says. Belle can’t resist rolling her eyes, grateful the phone conveys only noise.

  
Once his voice is replaced by a long chime, Belle puts the phone and the key back into her pockets and turns toward the end of the street. A thud from behind her makes her jump and turn, but there’s nothing there. It sounded like it came from the library, she thinks, and can just picture one of her teetering piles, sorted so carefully by measure of her interest, falling to scatter across the floor. She hesitates for only a breath before deciding it can wait.

  
Rumplestiltskin asked for her. He called her. Invited her in. Wants to show her something.

  
Since the moment she came back to him (even before she knew who she was), he’s been overjoyed to have her back. He’s bent over backward to accommodate her and has offered her anything and everything that is in his possession or power. He has curled his fingers around hers when she takes his hand, and wraps her in an embrace when she reaches for him, and in those first heady days of freedom and togetherness, he reciprocated everything she offered. 

  
But the one thing he hasn’t done, the one thing she craves above all, is to invite her into the closed portion of his life. He _accommodates_ her (and she’s grateful, so grateful, when the reactions of everyone in this tiny village show just how unusual that is for him), but he hasn’t _invited_. Now, he does. 

  
And now, if they are alone, if he has time for her between all the desperate souls vying for his attention…now is her chance.  
Belle’s steps slows halfway to the shop. 

  
She can tell him. 

  
The truth.

  
The lie.

  
She can stop the way the easy ( _too_ easy; she should have remembered Rumplestiltskin’s well-worn adage about there always being a price) lie has been spinning ever further out of her control. She can clear up the guilt that shadows Rumplestiltskin’s eyes when he thinks of protecting her. She can reassure him that she still loves him (she will _always_ love him). 

  
And then, she will find out if he can forgive her…or not.

* * *

  
He’s waiting for her, and when she comes through the door, he smiles. Tentative still, maybe, but automatic and _hers_ all the same. “Hey,” he says, and she can’t help but rush forward to let her hands rest on the counter next to his ( _almost_ touching).

  
“Hey,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

  
His breath catches audibly before he tidies it away and moves around the counter to stand just in front of her. “I miss you too,” he says, softly, voice more brittle than she’d like. To counter the fragility, she takes his hand in hers. 

  
“So…you have something to show me?”

  
“I do.” Tearing his eyes from their hands, he smiles up at her again. “But we’ll have to take a short trip, is that all right?”

  
“Of course.”

  
He blinks. “Of course. You…you trust me?”

  
( _You trust me to come back?_ )

  
“Well,” she teases, “I haven’t actually experienced your driving yet, but I suppose I can give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  
( _Oh, no. I expect I’ll never see you again._ )

  
(They are both, it seems, liars.)

  
It’s not until they’re in the car that Belle can finally focus past her own nervous excitement to realize that Rumplestiltskin is strung tight with his own tense anticipation. He’s controlled, of course, as this new persona of his often is, but there’s a ragged edge blurring the ends of that façade, a bit of Rumplestiltskin peeking through to make his hands fidget against the steering wheel and his breath to sound just the slightest bit ragged as he drives them away from the town.

  
When he pulls the car to a stop, Belle looks all around in a mixture of curiosity and confusion. There’s nothing there. Just more road, though something has left a bright orange line colored across the black stone, like a gate blocking the way. 

  
“Where are we?” she asks.

  
“The town line,” he says in little more than a whisper. 

  
Belle’s excitement is doused like flames under sand. Rumplestiltskin’s hand flutters toward hers (as if he means to comfort her) before falling back to his side. 

  
“You trust me?” he asks again.

  
Pausing only long enough to make sure she’s looking him straight in the eye, she nods. “Yes.”

  
“Then,” he says hoarsely, “come with me.”

  
Together, they move away from the car—stopped well back from that sickeningly bright line—and toward the town line. Belle lets herself cling close to his side, lets herself lean against him (lets herself _need_ him as much as he seemingly needs her), and is glad when they stop a foot away from it.

  
“What, uh, what are we doing here?” she asks. There’s a tremble to her voice, a tremor shaking her bones, and Belle finds it almost impossible to look away from that awful orange line.

  
“I have something for you.” Rumplestiltskin extracts his arm from her grasp long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a tiny glass bottle. Inside the bottle, a clear potion catches the light and casts a prism over his hand. 

  
Belle shivers and shrugs deeper into her jacket (wishes it were his sweater, warm and enveloping and saturated with good memories). “I don’t understand.”

  
Rumplestiltskin proffers the bottle to her. “It will restore your memories.”

  
Silence. The silence of the space between heartbeats. It comes all at once and overpoweringly (the exact opposite of heartbreak, or perhaps it is just the beat before the stages of that heartbreak begin playing yet again through them both).

  
At her silence, Rumplestiltskin lowers the potion a bit but doesn’t look away from her. His eyes are so full, _too_ full, all mingled hope and hurt and fear and glee, a concoction as impossible and magical as anything he’s ever made in his tower or that basement of his. “I’m sorry, Belle. What happened to you…what was done to you…you didn’t deserve any of it. But this…this potion can undo all that, if you wish it.”

  
“I…” 

  
Suddenly, Belle feels sick. 

  
How many days has he spent working on this? How many hours—when he should have been working on finding his son—has he instead devoted to trying to ‘fix’ this problem of hers? 

  
She thought she was helping (saving) him. She thought she was protecting (curing) him. She thought she was choosing his son (breaking his curse) for him.

  
Instead, she’s only delayed him. Distracted him. Hurt him for no reason at all. 

  
“Wait,” she says, but Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, desperate, pressing forward.

  
“Please, Belle. I’m sorry. I wanted to let you go, I wanted to free you find happiness, but…I need you. I didn’t want to lose you, again, without letting you know… _everything_.” He nudges the bottle against her hand, the glass warm from his body heat for all that it makes her feel cold inside. “You see, I think…I think I’ve found a way to cross the town line without losing my memories. I think I might _finally_ be able to…”

  
“Your son,” she whispers, sagging forward against him (in relief, in joy, in sheer _feeling_ ). “You can find your son.”

  
“Yes.” The word is a breath of longing that carries with it the weight of worlds and lives and untold centuries—and nothing at all compared to what shapes the next secret he gives her (all of that and more but paired with the hint of a smile). “ _Baelfire_ …is his name. I’ve never been very good at letting go, Belle. I’ve never been much more than…than a coward. And never more so than when I chose to hold onto my power even when that meant losing the most important person in my life.”

  
“But now you can find him again. That’s…” She takes a deep breath, suddenly finding it hard to get any air (suddenly hard not to wonder if he brought her here to say goodbye before he heads off into the world after his son). “That’s good.”

  
“I’ve spent my entire life since doing nothing but trying to find a way back to him.” He looks away, then, as if that could hide the tears spilling out of the damaged places inside of him (so much more than just a chip). “But now that I have a way…all I can think is that…” He leans heavily on his cane, the least graceful move she has ever seen him make (as if the loosing of these secrets is unbalancing him). “I have lost so much that I loved. I just…I didn’t want to lose you, too, without _trying_. So, here. If you’ll have it.”

  
Belle’s heart is fracturing inside her chest, all jagged edges and sharp points (and finally she sees the appeal in striking out at anything and everything around her, in unleashing devastation on the world lest it consume _her_ ). Shrinking in on herself, she buries her face in her hands and tries not to imagine what his face will transform into when she confesses (tries not to remember a kiss and a sudden transformation, a ravenous beast and a broken man stalking her with venom leaking from his mouth). 

  
“Belle?”

  
“I’m sorry!” she cries. “I’m so sorry, Rumplestiltskin. I remember, okay? I know who you are. I’ve always known. And I’m so sorry. I never should have lied, I just…I was so afraid that they’d use me against you again—and I was angry and _I_ was a coward, too, because instead of facing you, I hid behind a lie, and, Rumple, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

  
She’s tugging at his coat, at his scarf, pulling him close, her hands like claws trying to keep him at her side even as she cannot bear to look up and see the effects of her deceit. 

  
“Belle,” he says ( _still_ with that note of awe) and Belle lets out a cry and throws herself at him.

  
The glass bottle, jarred from his hand, falls to the ground at their feet. Shatters. Splatters liquid over their shoes. 

  
Belle stares down at it, trapped in a perilous moment. Belatedly kneeling as if she can fix it (as if _it_ is as important as the seething shards of their relationship), she says, “I’m so sorry. It’s…it’s gone. All that work you did and I broke it. It’s—”

  
“It’s water.”

  
“Wh-what?”

  
Rumplestiltskin takes her elbow to help her stand. He doesn’t _look_ ruined. He looks…composed. _Too_ composed.

  
“It’s water,” he repeats. “Admittedly, it is water from Lake Nostos, but that’s really only because I was feeling sentimental.”

  
“Water? But…you said it would restore my memories.”

  
“And if you took it, if you drank it thinking it was a potion…then that meant that you _wanted_ to return to who you were. When you were with me. It would mean that you…that you chose me. Again. Still.”

  
“But I don’t understand.” Belle backs up from him, her head shaking back and forth. “You…you knew? You knew I lied?”

  
His shrug is tiny, and so resigned it hurts her in a way she can’t quite define. “Not at first. But crossing the town line reverts you to your cursed self. And…you were still _Belle_. Still brave. Still kind. Still smart. Still…still not afraid of a beast.”

  
“You’re not a beast,” she says out of habit (sincerity touching every word).

  
He smiles a tight, sad smile. “And that’s why I knew.”

  
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she cries.

  
“Because.” He looks away, past the town line, out toward the world where, somewhere, his son waits. “It wasn’t what you wanted. If you wanted a clean break, then that’s the least I could give you.”

  
“I didn’t! I don’t!” she says fiercely, once more stepping closer, crowding him, reaching to curl her fingers around the lapels of his coat. “I just…maybe at first I was still upset. But…your _son_ , Rumple! How could I get in the way of that? How could I possibly ask you to choose me over Baelfire?”

  
Slowly, gently, he leans his head down until his forehead is resting against hers. “I love you,” he confesses (as if it’s something to be ashamed about; as if he’s afraid it sullies her in some way). “I could never choose between you. I thought…I thought I could let you go. But you kept coming back. You always come back, my darling Belle. And it made me hope in a way I haven’t for so very long. It made me think that maybe…maybe _this_ is what you want.”

  
“It is,” she whispers against his cheek, breathing deep of wind and spice and straw, metal and magic and wool. “But, Rumplestiltskin, what do _you_ want?”

  
“What?” He pulls back far enough to frown down at her, his brow creased, his eyes tight. “What do you mean?”

  
“I mean…when I asked you to protect me, that’s what you did for me—and you did, Rumple, you _did_ save me. And when I lied and you figured it out, you still gave me what you thought I wanted. But all this time, when I lied, when I tried to stay away from you, it was always because I thought it was what you wanted.”

  
“Oh, Belle, I would _never_ choose a life apart from you.”

  
“Then…then what do you want from me?”

  
He worries at the handle of his cane, a few inches of distance now between them. She wishes she could clean the fear off his face like she cleaned his castle of the cobwebs, wishes she could ease the constant worry always nibbling at the edges of his mind. But for now, this is _important_. This _matters._ (This is their future being decided here and it scares her too.)

  
“I want you to be happy,” he says, so earnest that she blinks back more tears. 

  
“But what do _you_ want?”

  
“I…I don’t want you to leave me.”

  
“Rumple,” she breathes (though she can’t ignore the fact that he still hasn’t _really_ told her what he wants). “I’m not going anywhere. Listen to me, okay? I _want_ you to find your son. And when you do, I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.”

  
His hands shake when he reaches forward. Her knees quiver when she steps into him. Their lips are steady as her heartbeat (yearning for his) when they meet. Belle melts into him, close and all-consuming and indescribable.

  
_This_ is her adventure. Her mystery. Her fate that _she_ chooses. 

  
“I love you, Rumplestiltskin,” she says, and catches him when he sags.

  
“Belle, sweetheart, please don’t leave me.”

  
( _Go_ , he once told her, when he thought it was what she wanted.

  
_Don’t leave_ , he says, now and then, in quiet moments, in sidelong glances, in hands that brush against her and steps that follow her, in between the lines of every false word he spins, the truth lying between.)

  
All this time, she thought she didn’t know what she wanted. But he’s been telling her all along.

  
_Don’t leave me_.

  
_Stay with me_.

  
_Love me_.

  
“I love you,” she says with a kiss to his cheek. 

  
( _My price is her._ )

  
“I love you,” she says with a kiss to his brow. 

  
( _It’s forever, dearie_.)

  
“I love you,” she says with a kiss to his nose. 

  
( _I will go with you, forever_.)

  
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” and a kiss with every truth, the binding seal on their deal and all the lies fled back to the shadows.

  
“Yes,” he says. 

  
( _I promise_.)

  
“And I love you too.”

* * *

  
There’s a pirate hiding in her library. There’s a fight when Rumplestiltskin escorts her back to the library and she pulls him in after her (intending to lead him farther, to pull him, unresistingly, up into her apartment and to keep him there until he has to go out to find Baelfire). A scuffle that ends with the pirate frozen immobile and Rumplestiltskin’s face transfigured with a fathomless hate when he looks down at the man. Belle recognizes the pirate, too (has her own reasons to hate), but Rumplestiltskin doesn’t deserve to be weighted down by any more darkness, particularly when he’s about to head off to make amends with his son.

  
When Belle puts her hand on him, he gentles. When she tells him to let the sheriff deal with the pirate, he listens. And when he puts his hand in hers, she knows that just as surely as she chose him, he chooses her too.

  
Nothing will be easy, she knows. Now that she’s found her love, he’s worth fighting for—and there will be more fights, she knows. More struggles. More lies. More secrets. Because he is trapped in a cycle nearly impossible to break free of (self-loathing and regret and fear all tangled up in an unconquerable hope that won’t ever let him stop trying anyway) and because she is not always as wise or as patient or as understanding as a character in one of her books might be (young and idealistic and so eager to be a hero it’s sometimes easy to lose sight of what matters most).

  
But it’s okay, she thinks as Rumplestiltskin bows to let her loop his son’s shawl around his neck. It’s okay because hard as this might always be, they both choose it. 

  
They both choose each other.

  
And like straw turning to gold, this truth transforms all their lies into magic.

  
“I’ll come back,” he promises.

  
“I’ll be waiting,” she vows.

  
A deal that will never be broken. The most powerful magic in any world.

  
True Love.


End file.
